Broken

By Sasha Marshall

2016 SIBA HUMOR AND NEW ADULT WINNER!

"Guitar Face rocks!"—She Hearts Books Blog

I was born to make music and bring the masses to their knees…until, I wasn't anymore. Until the thought of doing all of this without him made me sick to my stomach.

Henley Hendrix survives a crash that kills her closest band mate. She'd like nothing more than to retire from music, to hide, to heal, to disappear. She's tried. But her family is music royalty. Her brother is a rock star in his own right, and every friend she has is connected to the business one way or another.

I'll get sucked back in. I'm scared I won't survive rock-n-roll again. Won't survive Jagger, won't be able to put him back in the box.

Jagger Carlye is Henley's dirty little secret. Rock god, her brother's best friend, part of his band, and someone who loves the guitar as much as she does. Henley's loved him since she was a girl, but there are some things you don't do in this world. One of them is that you don't risk your brother's band or your heart in an industry that feeds on rejection and scandal. Love might not be enough in a world that grinds you down and puts you in a fishbowl.

And then there is Kip. My best friend, a drummer who never shuts his mouth. I should've fallen in love with him. My world would be so much easier.

Henley comes back to the world of rock-n-roll, puts a toe in the water, and creates a ripple that will rock the safe little life she's created for herself.

NOTE: This is a rock star romance series with a strong female lead, bad boys, and rock romance. If you are looking for a story of redemption with comic relief and a heavy sexual mind, you've found it. If you are offended by hot, tattooed rock stars, who are vulgar, then this is not the book for you. Please be warned, this book is not for anyone below the age of 18. The book contains sex, death, violence, and harsh language.

Author Bio: Award-winning author Sasha Marshall, a concert photographer, toured with legendary bands such as The Allman Brothers Band. A self-proclaimed free spirit, she's most often found outdoors, or painting a canvas, capturing a photograph, people watching, reading a book, or writing a new book. Sasha makes her home in the beautiful state of Georgia and loves to hear from readers. Visit her website at SashaMarshall.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: May 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781611948660

Sasha Marshall

Sasha Marshall is a romance author who loves bad boy with tattoos. In a prior life, she wrangled at-risk youth for a living. And, in the life prior to that, she traveled right along with the legendary rock act, The Allman Brothers Band, popping from the tour bus to the plane, hotel, and venue as a concert photographer. When she’s not writing, she’s loving on her two dogs, spending time with loved ones, crafting, or organizing book signings with Hot & Steamy Events. You can connect with her at Linktr.ee/SashaMarshallWrites

Book preview

The Guitar Face Series

Broken

There’s No Crying in Rock-N-Roll

Walking Back to Georgia

River of Deceit

Make It Rain

There’s a Woman

Broken

The Guitar Face Series

Book 1

by

Sasha Marshall

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Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

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Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-866-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-880-6

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2018 by Sasha Marshall Arts, LLC

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

A mass market edition of this book was published as Guitar Face by Sasha Marshall Arts, June 25, 2014

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Cover Design: K. B. Barrett Designs

Interior design: Hank Smith

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Dedication

For Malbern

My memories are filled with your music, my ears are full of your laughter, my thoughts burst with nostalgia for days gone by, my heart beats with the same fierce love and awe for you, but my soul is slightly fractured since you spread your wings and gracefully ascended into the hereafter.

Prologue

WHEN I WAS FOUR, my love affair with music began. One random day, I wandered into my grandfather’s recording studio and watched Uncle Buddy, who was not really my uncle at all, play the guitar for over an hour. I saw him close his eyes and jerk his head from the front to the back, tap his foot, and make the strangest faces. I thought he might be sick and asked my grandfather to take him to a doctor. My grandfather threw his head back and let loose that boisterous laugh he has.

When he composed himself, he said, Baby girl, Uncle Buddy isn’t sick. That’s just his guitar face.

My grandfather explained to me at four years of age what a guitar face was. I never forgot the words guitar face. I watched other musicians and found they had their own guitar faces—some dramatic and scary, but most were angelic. I convinced myself that my grandfather would be proud if I could pull off an angelic guitar face, too. I tried for almost a year to mimic some of those faces in a mirror, but I was never able to pull off the same effect.

By the tender age of five, I deduced my inability to produce a great guitar face was because I did not have a guitar, so, I borrowed one of my grandfather’s. Standing in the mirror, I realized my guitar face was still scary. Not long after my try at a guitar face with an actual guitar, I realized my guitar face sucked because I could not play the guitar. I decided I must master playing the guitar before my very own amazing, angelic guitar face would emerge.

I ran to the recording studio to beg my grandfather to teach me how to play the guitar, but I only found my Uncle B.B. there. He wasn’t really my uncle either. He was sitting on a red leather ottoman, playing his guitar, and had one of the best guitar faces I’d ever seen. I was afraid he would quit playing if he saw me, so I snuck back to the corner of the room and sat in his empty guitar case. I watched him play for what seemed like an eternity. The case smelled like smoke, whiskey, and music. My grandfather’s recording studio smelled the same way, which smelled like home to me. I had a difficult time keeping my lids open as the music lulled me to sleep. My small body slid into the case as I continued to listen.

The next thing I heard was the laughter of men, and when I opened my eyes, they all stared back with admiration in their eyes.

I never seen a child sleep in a guitar case like you do. You been fond of them things since you was old enough to crawl. One day you gonna be too big for it, B.B. said.

The men laughed again. I jumped out of his case and walked toward him, bound and determined to finish the mission I had set out on hours earlier.

Uncle B.B., my guitar face don’t look good. I’ve been trying since I was four and can’t make it look like yours, or Uncle Buddy’s, or my granddaddy’s.

All the men chuckled again, and that made my impatient temper flare. I put my hands on my petite little hips, pressed my lips together, frowned the best frown I could manage and poked my uncle in the arm. "It’s not funny! I have worked real hard to get a good guitar face, but it just don’t feel right. I even went and got my granddaddy’s guitar and held it in the mirror, and I still can’t do it right. Make my guitar face look like yours." I stomped my feet for effect, and no matter how good a job I thought I had done at relaying my anger, they all laughed again.

My uncle picked me up under my arms, placed me on his lap, and said, Baby girl, a guitar face doesn’t come from practice or from holding a guitar. It comes from the depths of your heart and soul. You can’t decide what your guitar face is gonna look like; the music does. You gotta play that guitar to have a guitar face.

I frowned again, fighting my five-year-old impatience, and took in the men surrounding us in the studio. Their faces were still smiling with amusement.

That’s why I came out here. I figured if holding the guitar didn’t make my face look right, then I need to learn how to play the damn thing, and you were busy playing your own guitar when I got here, then I fell asleep in the case. I need to learn how to play.

I had never been more serious in my lengthy five years on this earth.

My grandfather chimed in, You better not let your grandmamma hear you say ugly words. She’ll wash your mouth out with soap again.

My grandfather was never a serious man. I could see him fighting with himself between doing the right thing by scolding me or laughing. A smile remained on his face.

I’m sorry, Granddaddy, but I’m being serious, and everybody is laughing at me. This is important.

My grandfather and B.B. communicated silently with their eyes, and then they simultaneously laughed

I don’t know if you is guitar-playing material, little girl. Me and your granddaddy’s been playing for a long time, and I ain’t never taught nor seen such a little girl play the thing.

You won’t teach me to play because I’m a girl? I’m telling my grandmamma! She says girls can do the same things boys can. I do everything better than my brother, and I know I can play the guitar better than all of you! I just need someone with a good guitar face to teach me. Don’t be scared of girls or I will tell everyone you are all a bunch of sissies! I scrunched my face together and put my hands on my hips to show them I meant business.

With a great deal of effort, the men held back their laughter.

Well, now, B.B. said as he put down his guitar. Little Miss, didn’t nobody say nothing about girls can’t play guitars. I just said I ain’t never seen one. There’s a first time for everything. Come on, Red, let’s go get your grandbaby a guitar.

I was ready for my first memorable journey into the musical world.

FROM WHERE I stand on the side of the stage, in the depths of total darkness, I can hear the fans scream. My nerves are catapulting around my body, and the result is a trembling that my body can’t shake. The anxiety of stepping on this stage is overtaking my entire being. The fans can’t see me as I wait for the house lights to go down, but I can see and feel their energy.

Stage fright. I have stage fright, and I’m going to make a damn fool of myself. I’m Red Newman’s granddaughter, and the headlines will be savage if I don’t pull this off. Fans are unrelenting in their pursuit of a perfect live show. They won’t take their disappointment kindly.

In the blackness, someone grabs my hand, and I know the instantaneous calmness that has spread over me can only come from Caleb.

Don’t let it get to you, doll, he says.

I think I‘ll be fine when I get out there.

Remember, you can’t see past the first three rows when the house lights go down. If you feel nervous, find me or Griffin, and we’ll play music together. You don’t have to play for anyone but yourself, Hen.

Okay, I softly agree.

At that moment, the house lights go down. I’m about to play my first major venue, Madison Square Garden, at just sixteen years old. I’ve waited for this moment for a very long time. I knew it was coming, and yet, here I am with a classic case of stage fright. Caleb pulls me up on stage with him, and I stand at my mic with guitar in hand.

When the first riffs come through my monitor, I’m in a different place, and I couldn’t care less how many thousands of people watch. I’m a slave to my guitar, and I play it with the same devotion and intensity that I have since I was a small child. During the chorus of this first song, I look over at Caleb to see him smiling back. His face is angelic, the boy turned man, who can see the music as colors in his mind. The prodigy who somehow shares a part of my soul—my best friend, a brother, the one who understands me most. There is no familial connection, but a spiritual one that has had us on this stairway to heaven for the last ten years. The first song ends with thousands of fans screaming. The sound is exhilarating.

Chapter 1

IF I’D KNOWN THEN what I know now, I would’ve done everything differently.

That’s the thing about hindsight; it’s full of would’ve, could’ve, and should’ve. It took years for me to understand that if I could’ve, I would’ve, without a shadow of a doubt. But regrets are a part of the process. I wish I would’ve paid more attention to all of those men, wrapped my arms around their necks more, looked for the things I missed, and played for just a little bit longer beside them.

I wish I’d said I love you more, and that I’d spent more time telling them the profound effect they’d each had on my life. I wish I was certain they knew how I felt, and that being away from them caused me much pain. A pain so immense that I would never fully stop grieving. I will always grieve him and the innocence we all lost that night. We’d never known loss or had to face mortality. I’ll grieve the naiveté through which we saw the world, and I’ll grieve the times when none of us knew darkness or that darkness could reside somewhere deep in those closest to us.

I miss what it felt like to stand on top of the world, and I’m angry that I didn’t fucking know that’s where I stood when it was happening. I’m angry, because when you reach the highest point in your life, the only way you can go is down, and it’s a long, scary, painful fucking fall.

THERE ARE MOMENTS we each live for, moments when passion and adrenaline collide. The moment you stand waiting for the thing you crave most, anticipating it, while your body vibrates with anxiousness and impatience. You become this being with tunnel vision, focusing only on closing the gap between you and what you crave—the orgasm, the rush, and the bliss from making beautiful music.

Standing backstage, waiting for that one moment is exhilarating, full of fear, and somewhat irritating. Your spot is waiting, but you can’t go to it until someone gives the all clear. A concert is one of the most orchestrated events you’ll ever attend. The roadies rush around backstage to ensure the equipment is in place and tuned. They make sure the mics are the right height for each band member. The technicians are standing by, waiting for the same moment you’re waiting for. . . the live show. Personal assistants, managers, attorneys all mill around to make your life as easy as possible. They also deal with the bullshit, fans, friends, and family members. They’re there for support, but when you’re in that zone, waiting for the moment when the house lights die down and the music to start, they’re all a distraction . . . sometimes even an unwelcome one.

Tunnel vision.

Rhys, Caleb, Griffin, and I grab hands, sweaty hands, as we stand mere feet from the crowd. They’ll never know how long we stand that close to them as we wait for that call. The call comes for the show to begin and for our feet to move to the stage. We all have at least three personas: the musician away from the spotlight, always writing and composing; the musician who records while fighting for perfection; and the musician who stands on the side of the stage waiting for the moment when we can be our true selves under those hot lights.

When a musician enters that realm, nothing else matters. Nothing. The scorching lights don’t bother you, the crowd is barely audible, and you can only see the first three rows of fans. We put the shows on for the fans, but we do it for us first. It’s a divine place we all seek, playing live music.

But those moments of waiting—of standing stage left or stage right, listening to the crowd chant your name or the band’s, feeling the hum of energy they collectively exert—is purgatory. It’s pure hell. There’s only one place we want to be, and that spot is incredibly close, yet so far away.

Two minutes, a tech calls over the headsets.

I shake my hands out to eliminate the nerves from my body. Randy, my guitar tech, helps drape my guitar over my head. I pull a pick from my pocket and stretch my muscles as I wait for the final call.

Caleb throws his arm around my neck, his guitar bumping into mine, Let’s rock this motherfucker.

We always do, Rhys adds as he twirls his drumsticks.

I love hometown shows. I’m definitely getting laid tonight, Griffin adds.

The house lights die down, and the crowd grows to an almost unbearable audible level.

Showtime, Caleb says as we get the call.

We walk out onto a dark stage, with roadies illuminating our paths with cell phone lights. I stand there, in front of my mic, in the darkness, and close my eyes. This is the moment I live for. I breathe in the energy from the crowd, and then I pluck the first chord on my guitar.

Three Hours Later

JESUS CHRIST, he growls in my ear.

He continues to massage my clit and bring me closer to the brink of oblivion. Jesus Christ is about right; I’m about to explode all over his hand. I rake my fingernails into his muscular, tattooed back.

I can’t take this anymore . . . need inside of you now . . . going to fuck you like it’s my job, he growls again.

Connor Black pulls his fingers out of me and drops his pants down to his ankles. He unrolls the condom onto his shaft and steps back to me. He rains kisses down my jawline. Connor is the picture-perfect bad boy. He is the lead singer in Kellan’s Cross, a modern rock band. They sound like a cross between Breaking Benjamin and Five Finger Death Punch if you can imagine such a thing. I’m headlining this tour with my own band, Abandoned Shadow, and I’ve tried for six months not to fuck Connor. He has relentlessly pursued me, but I have a feeling I’m about to lose the fight. Yup, I’m going to fuck him. It sucks to be the only female on tour with eye candy surrounding you. Talk about a sausage fest. But given the choice, I’d much rather live amongst a sausage fest than struggle through an estrogen nightmare. Bitches be catty.

Connor leans down and kisses my neck. I know that if I fuck him, one of three things will happen. Choice one involves him telling everyone he can think of that he shagged me, Henley Hendrix, Queen of rock-and-roll. I know this could be a trophy fuck. Choice two involves him falling in love with me, and the fallout could get ugly. I mean restraining order and publicity battle ugly. Famous people rarely keep their personal matters to themselves. Nope, we crazy, rich assholes are known for using social media to bicker with each other—one big global Facebook page. I prefer privacy, but letting him stick his dick in me may invite a psycho loon into my life.

Choice three is much more preferable. This preferable choice entails both of us understanding we are two horny, consenting adults who just want to get laid. Once he gives me an orgasm and reaches his own climax, we will part ways. If the sex is good, I might do it again one day. Other than that, I don’t care to see Connor Black again.

Don’t get me wrong, Connor is as fine as they come at six feet tall, with dark blond hair tucked behind his ears, and pretty hazel eyes. The tattoos really do it for me. He has sleeves on both of his arms and a lip ring that is begging for me to nibble on it. Yeah, okay, I admit I’ve thought about it a few times along this six-month tour. I’ve exhibited willpower and all that motivational shit, but damn, a girl has needs. I need to get fucked, like yesterday.

He continues down my shoulder with his kisses and simultaneously pushes my already short dress up to my hips. He rubs the tip of his dick against my lips. He slowly inserts himself in me, and I swear to everything sacred, I almost come. His dick isn’t huge. It’s average, but thick in girth, and that is on my list of favorite things about a penis. He keeps his thrusts long and slow and kisses me like I’m the only woman in the world. I wish he would hurry though. There’s no time for romance shit.

Open your eyes, Henley. I want to watch your soul when you come, he whispers.

I wonder how many times he’s read Fifty Shades. Dear Connor, men really don’t fucking talk like that.

Let me see you, beautiful. I want to feel your soul when you come.

He’s fucking this up for me. I wonder if there’s any duct tape in the room. Moaning works for me, and he can still moan through the tape. This romantic bullshit is making my vag dry up like the damn Sahara. Okay, desperate times call for desperate measures. I pull him close and press my face to his chest. Now he can’t see me and peer into the depths of my soul and all that shit. I grab onto him and rake my nails into his back. He gives a grunt of pleasure and stops spouting all of that eighteenth-century L-O-V-E nonsense.

I imagine he’s somebody else, someone like Jason Momoa. When I imagine his hands running up and down my back and thrusting his pelvis into me, I find the edge again. Tattoos, I need tattoos. I turn my head to the side and watch the tattoos move on Connor’s arm and pretend they’re Jason’s. Oh yeah, that will do it for a girl. I feel that elusive climax begin to build and finally tip over the edge. Digging my fingers into his back, I throw my head back, and close my eyes, screaming out something, but no clue what. Here’s to hoping it wasn’t another man’s name. That would be a rather embarrassing headline.

Soon, Connor follows, jerking inside of me. Thank the heavens above; we’re done. At once, he pulls out and grabs the condom to dispose of it. A knock at the door startles me, and I race around to make myself presentable. Connor does the same. I open the door moments later when we’re both clothed. Neither of us can hide the freshly fucked look, I don’t even try.

Caleb is leaning against the frame of the door. A knowing smile graces his face. I wink at him to let him know I need to be saved from myself.

You ready to head home, Hen? Caleb asks a little too eagerly.

Uh, yeah. Let me say goodbye to Connor.

I turn around, and Connor has a look of shock etched on his face. Shit, this might not end well. I smile a sexy smile and saunter up to him. I play the only card I have, and it’s standing in the frame of the door. I wrap my arms around him for a hug and whisper in his ear. Sorry about this. Amazing lay. We’ll meet up soon, I lie.

I kiss his cheek and saunter out of the room. When I pass Caleb, I let the facade drop. Once we are a reasonable distance away, he begins his teasing tirade.

What did you tell this one? he asks.

Why do you ask?

Because he looks like you shot his dog.

I laugh. I apologized for your ‘unexpected’ arrival, then lied and said he was a great lay. And, I had to throw in the parting ‘we’ll get together again soon.’

Would you like more time with the bloke? Caleb asks in his best English accent.

Funny, but hell no. I swear he reads romance novels. I had to pretend he was someone else, so it wouldn’t be a total waste of time.

Jesus, that’s harsh, Griffin says as he falls into step with us.

Griffin is our bassist, and he enjoys hearing about my sexual endeavors. I don’t fuck around often on tour, but when I do, I’m discreet. I’ve been friends with the guys in the band since we were in grade school, but I keep a firm don’t kiss and tell policy . . . well, most of the time.

Who had the honors this time? Rhys asks, catching up.

Rhys is our drummer. Other than being a phenomenal drummer, he’s our resident playboy. The girls know it and don’t give a shit. They want to be another notch on his bedpost.

Jason Momoa, I answer.

Really? He’s married, Caleb says.

Wasn’t a factor. I fucked the recently divorced version, I say.

I didn’t know he was getting a divorce, Griffin says.

They aren’t, sweetie, just in my fantasies. It’s bad enough I had to pretend to fuck someone else. I can’t be a homewrecker too, I say.

Who’s in on the bet? Caleb asks as we walk into a dressing room filled with my brother’s band, Broken Access.

What are we betting? Kip asks.

Kip is the drummer for my brother’s band. He is one of my best friends, but he isn’t for the faint of heart. Kip is vulgar and honest. He also has the driest sense of humor on the planet.

We are betting on whether Connor Black will need a restraining order after Henley just ruined him for all other women, Rhys replies.

You fucked Connor Black? Jagger growls.

Oh, Jagger.

Jagger Carlyle is the best kind of eye candy. Look, I love every tattooed, gorgeous man my eyes land on, and all the other pretty men I’ve met over the years, but none of them have shit on Jagger. I’ve known this man since the sixth grade and have also been in puppy love with him just as long. He’s my brother’s best friend and the lead guitarist, songwriter, and backup vocalist in Broken Access. Standing at six foot three, the man is a solid wall of muscle. His body is lean with corded muscles. He has abs you’d want to eat your every meal on. That way you can lick up all your crumbs like a good girl afterward. Jag’s covered in tattoos in all the right places, has crystal-blue eyes, and dark brown hair. Jagger’s hair is currently buzzed short, and he’s sporting a five o’clock shadow. I’ve got a thing for five o’clock shadows.

Have you ever seen a man with stubble that makes you want to rub your face against it like a cat? This hopefully leads to him rubbing his face against the inside of your thighs, but I digress. Jagger is the man you would want between your thighs, and really any part of him between your thighs is acceptable.

Can we not talk about my sex life, please? I beg.

What sex life? That question is from my brother Koi, late to the conversation.

Dude, she banged Connor Black, Kip says.

Koi looks disturbed. Dude! She’s my sister. I don’t want to hear that shit.

I do. I want to hear all about it, but every time you would say ‘Connor,’ insert ‘Kip’, Kip says.

I vomited in my mouth a little. Koi, I’m twenty-two years old. I have sex. I just don’t make it as obvious as the rest of you, I say.